Can he find the music or is it gone forever…
When life got busy, and complicated, and stressful, Jamar found himself distancing from the thing he loved most. His music. But after weeks, maybe even months, of not playing his guitar, getting back to the music felt almost impossible. And if he stayed away much longer, he doubted he’d ever get back.
Taking his guitar to the café was a last-ditch effort. To either recover himself, or lose a piece of his soul forever. He never expected to find help…at the café.
JAMAR AT THE CAFE is available to read for free until the 30th of April, when another story will be posted. For readers who would prefer to read on a device of preference, or who would like their own personal eBook of this story, you can find it here.
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Jamar at the Café
A Café Story
Jamar hadn’t played his guitar in weeks. Maybe months. He couldn’t seem to bring himself to pick it up. There was something about strumming the strings, letting the low vibrations filter through his arms and bones, the hum of the music…
He missed that feel, those sounds, and yet he couldn’t seem to get back to it.
Always one thing or another. Some crisis. His dad getting kicked out of a club he’d joined last fall for arguing with the club president—it was a card playing club, but the argument had been over politics and his activist father had not backed down. Jamar was proud of his dad, but now his dad was restless and bored and kept pulling Jamar into activities that had nothing to do with Jamar’s music.
His mother had been taking care of her aging mother for the last few months, which had taken a toll, so Jamar kept stopping in at the house to take up some of the slack for his mom. And occasionally take a shift with his grandmother to give his mom a break.
The sessions he’d had booked at a local studio, playing backup guitar for various singers coming through, had all been cancelled because the studio had some legal trouble with its landlord and had to shut down for a few months. That had left Jamar a little low on cash. He worked at a local music store and taught guitar lessons on the side, which helped cover the bills, but his work at the studio was what he wanted to do.
Jamar had no interest in fame or playing in a band. But he did want to make a living with music.
It was just, at the moment, that had gotten a little hard. And life was a little more complicated.
Which made losing himself in the music feel impossible.
He only realized it had been months since he’d played when his mother asked how his music was going and he hadn’t been able to tell her anything.
That realization was what drove him to the café with his guitar case in hand. One of his guitars. The acoustic one. He used electric guitars in the studio sessions, and alternated between acoustics and electric for the lessons—depending on the student. But this was his muck about guitar. The one he took to random parks and restaurants and coffee shops, and even once or twice to the library, to play. Just for fun.
The café was relatively new, at least to him. A place that had only opened a few weeks ago. But it had a nice vibe. He’d gone in after being at the studio to collect some of his gear until they reopened and instantly liked the place. The feel of it was just…comfortable. The kind of place you could sit and sip coffee and eat muffins and enjoy your own company for hours and no one bothered you.
The place was attached to a nice independent bookstore, the two businesses flowing between each other through a wide opening in one wall. The café part itself had been a lot of wooden chairs and tall tables when he’d first come in, but since, the owner had rearranged some things and set out more couches and cushioned chairs and low tables like coffee tables and side tables. The center of the seating area was still more standard circular tables and chairs, but the edges were all comfortable seating arrangements like someone’s living room.
The owner’s name was Nina and she was very nice. A little rushed off her feet because the coffee shop did good business. But the last time Jamar had been in here, she’d had an assistant helping her. And there was a giant Maine coon cat that called a stool near the register his home. His name was Boo. He was huge, and pale gray, with pale blue eyes, all of which made his name fit really well.
Jamar had a take ‘em or leave ‘em attitude toward pets. But he did like cats. He wouldn’t consider owning one. But he liked the way they sometimes purred. His brother had a cat which he didn’t mind at all. His sister’s dogs were too chaotic. Sweet, but chaos on legs. Too much constant energy for Jamar.
During his two previous visits to the café, Jamar hadn’t bothered bringing his guitar, but this time, he decided it might be a good idea. A way to get back to playing that wasn’t pressured, like a studio gig. He was starting to feel like if he didn’t pick the guitar up again, he might never want to, and that feeling was horrible. But at home, or at work, actually playing had felt…impossible.
Whatever the block was, he was hoping the café would help him climb over it.
And if it didn’t, well, at least the coffee was good.
He sat at a table against the wall near the register, not far from Boo and his stool. Nina and her assistant Akira were busy that day—a weekend—and constantly moving behind the counter or out into the seating area to deliver drinks. He got his oat milk coffee at the counter and carried it himself to his table. He liked this spot. He could see a lot of the sitting area and the front door to the café, and look across into the bookstore, but he also felt sort of shielded from the rest of the room. Tucked into a corner where no one paid him any attention.
He was starting to recognize a few people here. The older woman, sitting in the center of the dining area, engrossed in a book—he couldn’t see the title, but last time he’d been nosy enough to check, she seemed to be reading erotica. The middle-aged white man sitting near the back, pounding away on his laptop. There was also another white man, who looked a bit like a lawyer, sitting at the front window of the café. That man spent a lot of time glancing at Nina, and Nina spent a lot of time glancing back at him. It was a love song waiting to happen, and made Jamar grin. If he could get back to playing his guitar, maybe he’d write that song. He wasn’t much of a song writer. In his deepest soul, he was a studio musician. But he dabbled.
Once settled, he sipped his drink, with just the right amount of oat milk to sharp black coffee, trying to work himself up to taking out his guitar. Just a few notes. Maybe run some chord progressions. Just a few minutes of play to break the cycle. He was certain once he set the old guitar on his lap, wrapped his long fingers around the neck, settled the pick between his right fingers, he’d be able to play without trouble. That was what he did after all, right? He played guitar.
Instead of opening his case, though, he pulled out his phone and ear buds and started listening to one of the new bands a friend at the music shop had told him about. They were playing a gig in a week, and his friend thought they might be a group Jamar would love. They only had one album out so far, and were an indie group without a big label. Jamar liked that part. He’d seen the damage some of those big labels could do to unique bands. Some groups were better off staying small and independent. But, of course, that wasn’t his place to say for other people. Not everyone wanted the music just for the sake of the music. More people wanted to be rich from their music than Jamar would have suspected before getting involved in the industry.
But according to Doug, this group was one of the ones who just wanted to improve their craft and entertain their audiences. Eclectic and innovative. The kind of musical range Jamar loved.
He told himself this was research. That part of his job was listening to new bands, absorbing music all the time, studying innovative new guitarists. And the woman leading this band was one of the most innovative guitarists Jamar had heard in a long time, too.
But his still firmly-closed guitar case leaning against the wall next to his cushioned seat was a constant reminder that he was here to attempt playing again, without any pressure, and he was failing in that effort.
He glanced over at the cat sitting on his stool and realized Boo was staring at him. Guess he did have an audience after all. When Boo didn’t do anything more than just sit there staring, Jamar started to get uncomfortable. Why the hell was that cat staring at him?
Maybe if he focused on something else.
He glanced out the window, looked around the café, turned his attention to his half empty coffee mug. Maybe he should get some more coffee. Didn’t want to take up a seat when he wasn’t paying for the place.
But when he looked toward the register, Boo was still staring at him and getting up to stand next to the cat felt like a good way of getting swiped by sharpened claws. Not sure why he was worried about that. Boo wasn’t hissing at him. Wasn’t glaring—any more than a cat’s natural stare kinda felt like a glare. The cat was just…watching him.
Desperate to do something, anything to distract himself from that stare, he actually set his mug down and reached for the guitar case. Flicking open the latches, pulling the acoustic out of the soft interior. The feel of the wooden neck settling into his hand, the weight of the base in his lap, slipping the pick out of the strings out of habit. Familiar. Like settling into his own body.
He’d had a guitar in his arms since the age of nine and it was such a familiar position now, he wondered that he’d been able to go so long without picking one up.
After a moment, the music still playing in his ears settled into his fingertips. He let his fingers dance over the strings without actually strumming, his eyes half closed as he listened to the excellent guitarist power through a complex solo that ran up and down the neck. Could he play something under that, a counter to steady it and make it stand out more?
He moved his fingers over the strings again, and this time thrummed gently with the pick, not trying to even make noise, but feeling the music that would come out if he put in the effort. The sound was there, right there, and it made him smile.
Another sound rose up next to him. A sound that was not guitar. He looked to the seat armrest where Boo had hopped up, balancing his huge body as only a cat could. Staring at the guitar now. When Jamar looked at him, Boo looked up and met his gaze, then looked back at the guitar.
And purred.
The purr sounded weirdly in tune with the music playing in Jamar’s ears. He frowned a little as he stared at Boo, but also started playing. Louder this time, just enough he could hear the notes he produced alongside the music in his ears and the sound of Boo’s purr. The combination was odd, and interesting. And lyrical.
He smiled. “You wanna jam?” he asked Boo.
Boo wrapped his fluffy tail around his legs, still perched on the armrest like it wasn’t much too small for him, and the purr turned up to eleven. Jamar chuckled, and raced along the chords to keep up with the guitarist he was listening to, matching Boo’s tone and rhythm. The whole thing was a little chaotic but also fun. Weird and yet beautiful. A race around a song they were making up as they went. Not quite the one he was listening to. A sort of rock and roll jazz progression that probably didn’t sound as interesting to anyone in the café as it sounded to him.
Except maybe Boo.
Because Boo just kept purring along with him. And if Jamar was the fanciful type, he’d swear that cat was grinning as he purred.
Jamar let the music he was playing wind down in time with the music in his ears, an impactful note from the band’s lead singer resonating for a hanging moment before the song ended. He paused for a long time, staring at Boo, who had stopped purring in perfect time to the end of the music. Then he smiled. And Boo smiled back—he was sure of it, even if most of the smile seemed to be in the cat’s eyes.
Jamar set his guitar aside, placing it gently in the guitar case at his feet and snapping the lid closed. Then he straightened, picked up his mostly cool coffee and sipped it. Boo’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Fine,” Jamar said. “I’ll get another cup.”
Boo gave another one of those smiles that came mostly from his eyes and curled up on the chair armrest, seemingly unconcerned that his body was five times too big for that perch.
Jamar went and got another oat milk coffee, then sat next to Boo and tapped his foot while he listened to more of the new band’s album. Occasionally, Boo purred along.
For the first time in a while, Jamar felt more like himself, like the guitar and his music weren’t so far out of reach.
When he finally had to leave to get to work, he looked at Boo. “Up for another session tomorrow?”
Boo licked his paw and Jamar would swear the cat nodded at him.
He laughed. “Okay. Guess I’ll see you then.”
He ambled out, looking forward to tomorrow’s jam session with a café cat named Boo.
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Thanks for reading JAMAR AT THE CAFE. I hope you enjoyed it. If you’d like your own personal eBook copy of this story, you can find it for sale here. You can also peruse the previous Café stories that are individually available for sale here. And don’t forget to check back on May 1st for the next Free story from The Café!
JAMAR AT THE CAFE Copyright © 2025 Kat Simons
All Rights Reserved. No part of this story may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.